


Lovestruck

by Pholo



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Pining Shiro (Voltron), Shiro being self-destructive, god dammit Shiro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 16:23:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11971137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pholo/pseuds/Pholo
Summary: "The Hanahaki Disease is fictional disease, where the victim regurgitates and coughs up flower petals when they suffer from unrequited love. The illness can only be cured through surgical removal; however, any existing romantic feelings are also removed with the infection."Shiro's in love with Keith. He doesn't believe Keith shares his feelings—or evenshould.





	Lovestruck

It doesn't show up in his L-10. Otherwise there's no way Shiro would've been cleared for the mission.

Shiro knows he's in love. He's been head over heels for months, though he'd pushed the fact under the wheels of his busy schedule. Better to focus on classes than get tangled up with a first-year, he'd thought. It would only make trouble for himself and for Keith.

Shiro thinks the Hanahaki hit the day of the launch. He hadn't seen Keith since quarantine, of course. He'd looked out over the crowd at the launch zone, poised to enter the shuttle, and spotted Keith's mullet amidst a sea of grey, green, and orange uniforms.

Shiro raised a hand. Gave a wave.

Shiro could barely make out Keith's face from so far away, but he thought he saw Keith smile—that brave, sad smile you make when you say goodbye to your friends. Shiro's heart clenched painfully; his lungs strained. He resisted the urge to clutch at his chest.

“Come on, golden boy,” Matt had teased. He'd pulled Shiro over the threshold of the shuttle. “You'll see him when we get back.”

And now here he was, fingers hooked over his mouth, choking on the floor of the main cabin of a space shuttle.

“Breathe,” Professor Holt orders, hand firm over Shiro's coiled back. There's a whistle of air, and Shiro tenses where he sits braced on all fours. “Stay calm, Shiro. You're all right...”

Shiro snags another breath past his teeth. He coughs, deeply. A broken sound rips up his throat—another moment, and a knot of flower petals spill past his lips and onto the floor. Professor Holt murmurs at Shiro as the splutters. “That's it, Shiro. It can't last much longer.”

Matt, having taken over for Shiro at the start of his coughing fit, looks over from his seat at the controls, desperate to help but unable to abandon his post. His hands loosen around the throttle when Shiro stills. His coughs become less frequent. The silence returns at last, tinged by the hum of the cabin. The petals flutter on the floor, stirred by the ventilation system.

Shiro's vision clears. He stares down between his hands at the petals on the floor, and lets the ship's oxygen cycle through his lungs.

“...Have you told him?” Matt asks, finally.

Shiro barely has the energy to shake his head. Professor Holt's hand stills on his back. The professor sits back on his heels, an eyebrow cocked as Matt makes an unhappy noise.

“Shiro, that kid adores you,” Matt says. “He looks at you and his eyes are like Looney Tunes hearts. It's totally requited. You've gotta' talk to him.”

“I can't.”

“What? Why not?”

Shiro clenches his fingers. “He doesn't...feel that way for me. Besides...I'm too old for him.”

Matt looks like he wants to throw up his hands. Since he can't let go of the controls, he settles for strangling the stick. “For fuck's sake, Shiro. Give the guy some credit. He's old enough to make his own decisions.” Matt shoots a glare over his shoulder. “Mark my words: the _second_ we're back in range, you're giving him a call.”

 

 

Shiro sits hunched in the corner of the cell, counting the petals in his hands. Seven. They're a deep cherry color, with a white streak at each tip.

It's gross, really. The hacking sounds he makes at night, when the other prisoners are trying to sleep. The way the petals emerge from his mouth speckled with blood and saliva. If a fit strikes in the middle of an arena battle, he'll be killed for sure. But a part of Shiro relishes his curse. It's a reminder of his humanity. When he stands over the corpse of an alien—sometimes a friend from the cells, sometimes a robeast—Shiro can feel the the rustle of air against flora, and know that somehow, he's still capable of love.

There are footsteps outside. Shiro recognizes the cadence, and lets the petals fall between his fingers. The guards are here to collect him.

 

 

Once, on the operating table, a mage asks Shiro what's wrong with him.

“Is this a Terran disease?” she says. The creature plucks a petal from Shiro's lips, turning it over under the light. “Is it fatal?”

“No,” Shiro lies. His flesh hand sweats under its manacle; he keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “It's not.”

He refuses to elaborate.

 

 

Shiro learns to stave off the coughing fits. He feels the first telltale tickle at the back of his throat, and knows to duck into a side room or a bathroom, away from the eyes of his friends. As far as the Voltron crew is concerned, Shiro suffers from a chronic cough. The petals are buried between the folds of Altean tissues; flushed down toilets; stuffed to the bottom of wastebaskets.

The night before a battle, Allura approaches Shiro with one of his makeshift handkerchiefs. Shiro stares, rooted to the spot as Allura holds out the cloth for him to reclaim.

“I found this on the floor on the way to the records room,” Allura cuts through the shocked silence. “You were the last one there.”

Shiro blinks. He stares down at the handkerchief between Allura's thumb and forefinger; takes in the bloody spot at the center, and the single petal caught amidst the creases.

“Explain,” Allura orders. Worry makes her tone sharp.

Shiro swallows. He lets his arms rise from his sides, and plucks the fabric from Allura's outstretched hand.

“It's called Hanahaki Disease,” Shiro says quietly. He takes one last look at the handkerchief, folds it down the middle, and tucks it into his back pocket. “It's rare. A byproduct of one-sided love. You cough up flowers until your feelings are requited.”

Allura's brow furrows. She rubs her fingertips together for a while, eyes on the wall. “Keith,” she muses, finally.

Shiro swallows.

“Yes,” he says.

A long pause. “I don't understand,” Allura says. “Your love is requited, Shiro. Surely you know that.”

“You're wrong,” Shiro says, not unkindly. His eyes are soft. “He loves me, but not like that. His mother died when he was a toddler; his father left when he was thirteen. I'm like an older brother to him—a mentor.”

Allura frowns. “You haven't spoken to him outright. You can't be sure of all that until you've asked him.”

“I can't. It wouldn't be right of me.”

Allura looks like she wants to drag Shiro to Keith's room by the ear and force him to confess. “How do you mean?” she manages.

“Like I said, Keith sees me as family. And I'm seven years older than him.”

“Yes?”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “Allura. I don't want to take advantage of him.”

Allura makes a very Lance-like gesture of frustration. “Keith is a paladin of Voltron,” she snaps. “I know you have more faith in him than this. If you are to continue to put your own health at risk, then at least have the decency to be truthful about your reasons for doing so.”

 

 

Allura's words ring in Shiro's ears as he lies awake that night. It's been a while since he revisited his reasons for keeping the Hanahaki a secret. Back on the mission to Kerberos, Shiro had been stalled by visions of Keith's rejection; of having the love gutted out of him by surgeons.

It was true that age had been a significant factor as well. Both then and now, Shiro believed he was too old for Keith. Hell; at the Garrison, a relationship between a cadet and a senior officer could end in expulsion.

Now...

Shiro lifts his right hand from the bedsheets, turning it to stare at his palm. The metal reflects his room's blue night lights, a little runway of stars curling along the divots of his fingers.

Shiro exhales slowly through his mouth. Does he want to die?

It would be easier to slip away like this, he supposes. To leave the universe-saving for his friends; to exit the stage on his own terms. Perhaps that's been his plan all along.

Shiro lets his hand fall back against the mattress.

He should talk to Keith. He really should.

 

 

He's in the middle of a training session with Lance when a fresh pain rips up his ribcage. Shiro doubles over, vision white, and finds himself sprawled out on the floor, curled under Lance's frantic hands.

“Shiro! Hey,” Lance demands. He grasps at Shiro under the arms. “Stay with me, buddy. We're gonna' get you to a healing pod.”

“Won't—work,” Shiro gasps, as Lance attempts to haul him upright. Wet, ragged sounds echo off the walls of the gym; petals twirl to the floor.

The look on Lance's face is one of horrified understanding.

“Quiznak,” he growls. “Shiro, stay here! I'll be right back.”

As if Shiro could go anywhere. He hasn't suffered a fit like this since the Kerberos mission. Shiro lets Lance lay him back down on the floor, limbs taut with tension, vision blurry. His lungs feel like they're full of cotton and brambles. Shiro gasps, desperate for air, as Lance's footsteps fade away down the hall.

It feels like an eternity before Lance reenters the room, Keith at his side. Shiro can barely see for lack of air, but he feels Keith's presence; registers a rapid clack-clack of footfall over the rasp of his own breath. There's a black and red blur as Keith kneels amidst the pool of red petals. He gathers Shiro's head in his lap; his fingers shake where they card through Shiro's short hair.

Keith bows his head.

“Shiro,” he says, desperately. His breath tickles Shiro's forehead. “Shiro...”

Shiro catches a breath between coughs; he stutters around the sound of Keith's name. There are tears at the corners of his eyes. Keith's hands come to a rest on Shiro's cheeks.

“Takashi,” Keith says. “You...fucking _idiot_. Of course I love you. How could you _ever_ think...”

Shiro's heart stops. He stares up at Keith, shocked. Keith's nose is scrunched up, his eyes narrowed like he's trying not to cry. He runs his thumb up Shiro's cheek.

“Breathe,” Keith orders.

And somehow, Shiro can. The last petal leaves his mouth; he opens his lips for another cough, and oxygen races down his throat, straight to his lungs. It's too much, all at once; Shiro can't remember the last time his lungs reached full capacity. The extra oxygen hits him like a flash flood. The world swims and twirls; Shiro twists around in Keith's lap, anchoring himself against the Red Paladin's chest. Keith welcomes Shiro into his orbit. He buries his face in the crook of Shiro's neck and shoulder, arms coming up to support Shiro's back.

Through the maelstrom, Shiro feels Keith's hair brush the side of his face. Keith's words echo back at him, and Shiro chokes on a relieved sound. His hands fist tighter around the material of Keith's jacket.

“Why the fuck didn't you tell me?” Keith rasps, his own hands bunching around Shiro's shirt.

Shiro opens his mouth to speak, but can't find the words. For a while he simply breathes, taking in the smell of Keith's civilian clothes.

“I'm sorry,” Shiro says at last. Keith makes a desperate noise. He raises his head to kiss Shiro under the line of his jaw.

“Stop trying to leave me.”

Shiro shudders once. He tilts his head; their noses brush, and his lips find Keith's. Keith sags under Shiro's hands, raising his fingers to the back of Shiro's head.

“Not again,” Shiro promises, between kisses. “Never again.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sheithfromvoltron dared me to do a Hanahaki fic with pining!Shiro; they said they might pursue a Keith version, so I'll post a link to that if they do!
> 
> Update: Just found a fic similar to this one that came out earlier than mine! I get the feeling I read it and subconsciously picked up on elements from it, so I apologize!! Here's the link to that fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11596140


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